Consequences
by amaretto and coke
Summary: Layton/Legal!Luke. Attempting to leave the services of a puzzle master turns out to be more than Luke bargained for. Yaoi, very PWP. One-shot.


**Author's Notes:** I do not own the _Professor Layton_ series or any of its characters ... merely taking them out of the toy box to amuse myself. Not shota, Luke is at least legal (if not quite a mature adult).

It took one pint to bring the plan to the forefront of his mind.

It took a second pint for Luke to convince himself that it was actually _possible_ to accomplish_._

The plan had gone through his head so very smoothly at the time. Perhaps the two draughts of Guinness—on an empty stomach no less—provided extra lubrication, but so be it. He was too old to keep trailing around behind a professor of archaeology who was a train enthusiast/fencing master/puzzle buff/tea master on the side. (When did the man even find the time to teach, for that matter?) He was going to march right over there, tell Hershel Layton exactly what he thought of him, and deal with the consequences.

He arrived at the older man's flat much the worse for wear promptly at 12:23 a.m.

He told Hershel Layton what he thought of him, eventually. It took a while, with him continually losing his train of thought and the Professor using every turn of conversation to digress into foolish puzzles that an infant could solve.

He wasn't at all prepared for the consequences.

He had hoped that the Professor might be understanding and dismiss him with an invitation to pop in for tea in future, but it was more likely that he would get a bit of frigid formality, an indifferent handshake, and the door shut in his face.

Instead, the Professor simply doffed his elegant top hat and stood. "I fully understand if you wish to discontinue your apprenticeship, Luke. After all, an 18-year-old has a differing set of priorities than does an 11-year-old. If I may be so bold as to say goodbye and good luck ..." and he opened his slender arms, offering a parting embrace.

And stupid boy that he was, Luke had completely mistaken it for something friendly and innocent. He had walked right into the trap with his eyes wide shut, feeling those arms wind around his chest and back and lock tightly. The hug went on. And on. And on, well past the point of propriety.

The Guinness hadn't quite worn off, or he might have noticed the lips trailing along his jaw line sooner, felt the fingers slowly working their methodical way under his waistcoat. But he noticed very little—the drunken stupor was incredibly pleasant.

At least, until stupor became warmth in his stomach, building and flowing and overflowing and spreading inevitably lower, and warmth became something solid pressing against his groin with a skilled grasp.

Was that ... a _hand?_ Cupping, stroking, gently palming him through his trousers?

And was that ... his own voice, gasping and shaking and promising all manner of lies if this could continue?

The Professor's eyes were dark, shaded by long pale lashes that brushed Luke's half-closed eyelids. The Professor's hair was fine as silk, the strands moving with every fitful breath that Luke managed to exhale. The Professor's lips were ever so slightly swollen, bruised by the rough bristle on Luke's face. The Professor's cheeks were pink with exertion and loss of breath. His right hand moved steadily. His left arm still held his former apprentice upright, which was fortunate as Luke's knees were no longer up to the task.

"Luke, my boy ... we can conclude this matter in one of several ways ..." The Professor spoke these words directly against Luke's mouth, taking subtle advantage of their slight height difference. "I could ... _ahem—_kneel down_,_ or we could continue as we are at present, or—" and in one smooth movement, he deftly flicked off his belt, skimmed his trousers down a few critical inches, and turning away, grasped the ledge of a beautiful antique desk.

Luke hesitated.

The professor gently rocked forward onto the balls of his feet, half-turning back to look at Luke with those dark eyes. He blinked languorously, waiting.

And then Luke was lost, grabbing the older man from behind, holding Layton by his slim hips, roughly thrusting for several seconds before he realized that he had neglected to open his _own_ trousers. He corrected this meaningful oversight quickly before pressing his former mentor forcefully against a copy of _The Theory of Molecular Evolution, _a half-edited master's thesis, and yesterday's paper.

For a brief second, he saw the slight, meaningful twitch at the corner of the Professor's mouth, and his brain suggested that far from this entire chain of events being a spontaneous gesture on Layton's behalf, the man had actually ingeniously **seduced** him.

How very unlike a gentleman.

But then his body slowly—ohsweetmercifulheavens— moved forward, and all conscious thought short-circuited straightaway.

"Ah," Layton gasped, that ghost of a smile still on his lips. A bead of sweat oozed from his hairline down into his orange pullover. "Wonderful ..."

And Luke slowly moved back before allowing his body to drop forward again, and Layton gently pushed backwards into him, and their gasps rose and faded and rapidly grew into excited cries before dying away into breathless moans, and they moved, moved, moved until their mutual pleasure overtook them and they slid to the floor, Luke still holding Layton around the hips, Layton's right leg giving the occasional reflexive kick and rustling the pages of a now-damp copy of _The London Times._


End file.
